burnt toast life

Deeda and Cindy take New York

(**I am Deeda. Cindy is my mother-in-law.)

On Monday night Eric and I sat down and discussed whether or not he would come to NYC with us. After making sure that I wouldn’t be secretly mad if he didn’t go, he pointed out that if the transfer worked this time, I would have the baby this year and he would much rather take time off once bambino was born. Despite my optimism with this cycle, I hadn’t even considered this. Couple that conversation with the fact that when I walked into the living room just prior, he was engrossed in a local health spot on breastfeeding and said, “I’m getting some really great advice for us,” you can see why my heart utterly melted. Yes, I picked the right man to make a baby with.

On this trip I finally figured out why New York makes me feel so unsettled. Let me preface this paragraph by saying something: I am in love with New York. I think it’s sexy, glamorous and impossibly cool. I only wish that I was worthy of it. I brag about the year that I worked in midtown Manhattan like it meant something, even though if I strolled through that company today not one person would recognize my face (and with their turnover rate, I probably wouldn’t recognize most of theirs. Thankfully). Anyway. I figured out the two words that best sum up my New York experience: sensory overload. I don’t mean the lights and the noise and the people; I mean the action. I am the type of person who always wants to be part of what’s going on. I think it’s probably one of my most annoying qualities (friends – correct me if I’m wrong). I am known to whine at my sisters-in-law for going to Target or trivia nights or anywhere without inviting me, even when I’m more likely to say no than yes. The other night my two friends mentioned going to a bar together recently. I blurted out, “Oh, was it that night I couldn’t come? Or some other time? Did you guys just plan your own thing, then?” like some jealous psycho girlfriend. In this post I mentioned reading “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns),” a hilarious book that I would have loved for the title alone. That could have easily been my own memoir’s title. (Current working titles: “Have Progesterone, Will Travel,” “I Should Have Been a Fertile: Why I was Robbed of My One True Destiny,” and “Infertility, Student Loan Debt, and a Useless Liberal Arts Degree: How to Overcome Adversity and Win at Life!”)

New York City makes me feel like I’m being left out. There are so many restaurants, bars and stores that I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something (which I definitely am, but how can anyone avoid that?) So I walk around and instead of enjoying myself, I just peek in windows thinking, “Is that place cool? Is this place happening? Are those people having a great time? Oh gosh, look at that brownstone. What if I lived there? How amazing would my life be? I bet I’d have a chaise lounge.” I cannot keep a handle on my excited thoughts and wind up not enjoying anything. New York is like my way-too-cool-for anyone, inaccessible and intoxicating lover. It gives me just enough to keep me coming back but never keeps me satisfied.

That said – we had such a fabulous time. We ate at Bangkok House the first night and got a prix fixe meal including soup, an appetizer, a salad, an entree and dessert for $16.95 per person. And it was phenomenal. Leave it to my mother-in-law to find an incredible discount, even in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

For breakfast the next morning we went to Le Pain Quotidien, a delightful French bakery within sight of Central Park. It’s the kind of place where you’ll always find Europeans, particularly French people engrossed in lyrical conversation, which I believe is a very good mark of authenticity.

Right, so we didn’t go to New York just to eat. We were there for this greater purpose that had my phone blowing up with texts and my Facebook blowing up with love. As if I wasn’t overwhelmed enough! I felt like a hero headed off to war (or how I imagine one might feel). My brain told me not to be nervous, but the night before I suffered some serious insomnia. I got up at 2 a.m. and stared out to the city streets forlornly, feeling like I was auditioning for a Lifetime movie. I should expand my vocabulary here, but really “overwhelmed” is the best I can come up with. It was finally happening.

in Central Park, right before my big moment

in Central Park, right before my big moment


My appointment was at 11 a.m. They called me back to the procedure area about 15 minutes prior, I got all capped and gowned, and then I had to wait in that waiting area. And wait. And wait. Thank goodness I had the foresight to keep my iPhone handy, because I ended up waiting for 45 friggin minutes. I did talk to a very nice woman who was there for her second transfer, her first being two years ago and successful the first time. AND she only transferred one. She also confided that Martha Stewart’s daughter goes to the same doctor as ours and that he specializes in tough cases. Overall, she calmed me down immensely.

The procedure itself was underwhelming. They did not let me watch the screen or record it. No one made a big deal about it. The whole thing felt just like a gynecological exam; uncomfortable but not painful. I watched the clock for lack of something better to look at and I can say with confidence that I “got pregnant” at 11:45 a.m. on Thursday, February 28th. Of course I was terrified to stand up afterwards, like they were going to fall out (which they assured me was not going to happen). Wanna hear something funny? The doctor kept saying “Just relax” the whole time I was laying there (possibly the only two words of English that he knows). Like, I literally had to just relax so I could get pregnant. Irony, right?

Cindy requested an "after" picture so I got silly on the subway

Cindy requested an “after” picture, so I got silly on the subway


Afterwards we headed down to Union Square because I had my heart set on checking out Forever 21’s maternity line, which is only offered at certain locations. Or was offered, I should say. Apparently the line was discontinued last summer and according to the flippant and annoyed sales girl, it “didn’t sell.” It’s probably for the best. In case anyone was keeping score, I have yet to buy one piece of maternity clothing. Maybe I should wait for the beta. Yeah.

My MIL had looked up a couple of places to visit, including an eatery called The Redhead that sells homemade bacon peanut brittle (yup, that exists). We walked to it from Union Square, which was no small feat. I tried desperately to slow down my normal speed walker pace. We walked and walked and walked… only to find the place closed until dinnertime. Ugh. We splurged and took a cab back and ate at Gazala’s Place, as seen on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Again, inexpensive and delicious.

By nightfall we were exhausted and decided to forgo our plans of seeing a comedy show. We did make a stop at Magnolia Bakery before coming back to the room, so we spent the evening vegging out and working ourselves into a sugar coma. Pretty sure I fell asleep at 9 p.m.

So that’s it – I’m home and happy to be back. I’ve been trying to figure out if I feel different… so far, no. Just calmer. I have that sense of peace that comes from finishing a job interview or turning in a final exam. I have literally done everything that I can do. Now it’s out of my hands… and into my uterus. My first beta is on Thursday, which means I have to skip a ski trip to Massachusetts with my family next weekend since the second could potentially be on Saturday (God-willing).

And now… we wait.

the face of utter exhaustion.. heading home

the face of utter exhaustion.. heading home

I want you to stay

First of all, I can’t take credit for the general idea of this post. I saw a similar concept over at It Only Takes One and when I reached the end with tears streaming down my face, I knew I’d have to make one of my own.

Here is an open letter to my two snow babies on this ever-so-important embryo transfer day.

Dear babies,

Hey! Hope you’re digging the view in my womb so far. I’ve been working very hard to make sure it’s cozy, if you count positive thinking, obsessing, and trying to mentally will my lining to bulk up as “working very hard.”

Hear me out, I have a couple of reasons that I think you should stick around (haha, get it? stick?). If you reach the end and think it’s not for you, that’s cool. You’re no prisoner here and ultimately I want you to be happy. But I think I’ve come up with some pretty compelling reasons to stay. Ready? Here goes.

1) Your dad. I already know what an amazing father he’s going to be based on how excited he is today, how he treats his nieces and nephews and how much he wants to be a dad. I already know how this is going to go down: he’ll be the “fun one,” always helping you make huge, exciting messes everywhere and I’ll be the “party pooper,” yelling at everyone to clean up the mess. You see, he’s just a big kid at heart. That will come in handy for you because he’ll always see your side of things and never talk down to you. I know you’re going to love him.

2) Your grandparents. Kids, you really lucked out in this department. All four of them can’t wait to meet you and spoil you silly. Plus, you have experts in all areas including cars, bargain shopping, hard work, politics and facts of all kinds. Just wait. You’ll see.

3) Your cousins/aunts/uncles/fur brothers. I can already see all the fun you’ll have with the kids, and there will never be a dull moment. There’s tons of hand-me-down clothing (don’t worry; all good stuff) and family gatherings are always a treat. You’ll fit right in. As for fur brothers, there are two and I can guarantee they will want to play – for endless hours – even when mommy and daddy are too busy. They’re also great at cuddling.

4) Well… me. I have been waiting for you for a long, long time. This may sound cliche so don’t judge me, but I knew I loved you before I met you. And as for any challenges you may face – bring it on. I’m well aware that ADD runs in the family and I am 100% prepared for it. I will love you no matter what.

So if you heard me voice concerns about having twins in the past, I’m sorry. I’ll admit that at first I was hesitant, but I’m warming up to the idea. And since you’re both here, I definitely want you both to stick around (see, did it again. Stick!) I hope this letter convinced you, because we would be truly honored to meet you.

See you soon (hopefully!)

to clarify: the photo I used before (in "we set the date") was just found on the internet. This is a first photo of my ACTUAL children. Thinking of framing it.

to clarify: the photo I used before (in “we set the date”) was just found on the internet. This is a first photo of my ACTUAL children. Thinking of framing it.

pretty darn healthy

Overall, I’m a healthy girl. A few minor exceptions: I have a geographic tongue (which I’ve had my whole life, and is weird but harmless), I’m lactose intolerant and I have an adult onset allergy to latex. I’ve never been really sick, never broken a bone, never been hospitalized. On the lady parts front, I started my period a few months before my twelfth birthday and have gotten it every 28 days since, like a damn clock. I’ve never been on birth control. I ovulate on day 14. (I’m sorry, I suck. There’s a point to this seemingly useless bragging, I promise).

uterusI’ve been thinking a lot about why this transfer feels like it’s leading up to an inevitable BFP despite so much evidence to contrary (such as other people’s stories). I envision that once the embryos get shot into my uterus, they’ll get a playful nudge from my reproductive parts and my lining will say, in a mock angry voice, “Where the hell were you? We have been waiting for you.”

You may have noticed from my stats at right that our problem is MFI. I haven’t gone into too much detail because this is my blog and I don’t want to be blabbing about my husband’s health all over the internet. But let’s just say we were conceptionally challenged because we needed some swimmers who could make it to that egg. The egg who was waiting every single month. On day 14. I’ve spent hours trying to find another blogger with the exact same issues so I could compare timelines, but so far to no avail. So I really have no basis for thinking this will work except for my weirdly optimistic, can-do attitude.

Besides the inherent yearning for children, I feel like I was actually created to do this. My grandmother had six kids, my mom five and my 23 year old sister has two with another on the way (ugh. I know. But she’s not a bitch about it). I come from a long line of fertiles. I want deserve need to join their ranks. I cannot picture a future without it.

My first RE said, “Sorry darlin’, don’t even waste your money on IUI. It probably won’t work. You’re going to need IVF or a miracle.” Of course at the time, it was discouraging. We had more of a “wait for a miracle budget,” not an IVF budget. We also had zero insurance coverage for any of this. So we went back home and said, “Let’s ignore this problem for a while and hope for the best.” If he was ignoring it, I never was. Each month was a tragedy. Some months I told him the best day, some months I didn’t and just put the moves on when the appropriate time came and on what I hoped he considered random days. I figured eliminating the pressure could only help. I have a tendency to be a bit controlling (cue Eric/my family/anyone who knows me saying, um, yeah A LITTLE), especially when things are totally out of my control. I wasted so much money on OPKs even though they said the same thing every time. Day 14. Day 14. OK, once it was day 13. But I’m textbook.

Now that I’ve been reading about what will happen after that (hopefully inevitable?!) BFP, I’ve been getting freaked out. I honestly thought that once you got that second pink line, it was time to pop the champagne and celebrate. Only now am I seeing how woefully uninformed I really am. First of all, two pink lines mean nothing. I’ve watched people photo document test after test at different times on different days (And does the line really get darker as more time passes? What is the significance of this? Someone please tell me!) Plus, the first beta (originally in my mind “the icing on the cake.” HA.) is only cause for minor celebration because if your numbers aren’t doubling by the second, you’re screwed. There are so many things that I did not prepare for. I had no idea you could be just a little bit pregnant.

I know thousands (millions?) of women suffer misses and that I am strong, but guys… I just don’t know if I can handle it. I really don’t. I’m not sure what that means, “not able to handle it.” I’ll have a mental breakdown? I’ll spontaneously combust? I’ll drive off into the sunset, never to be seen again? No clue. But the mere prospect of this possibility – of having something that I’ve wanted so badly yanked from my grasp before I’ve even had the chance to shop for belly band denim… I can’t. Any of you who have gone through it, fertiles and infertiles included, my heart goes out to you and I am in awe. I simply can’t fathom how you survive it.

I know, I’m worried about losing a baby that isn’t even implanted yet. It’s madness. My brain is always 5 steps ahead prepping for any eventual trauma. We’ve dealt with so much, we’ve come so far and we’ve made it here. So now… what’s next?

we set the date

day5blastFunny, right? I should sent out cards. The fact that it will only barely still be February is amazing, and of course feels like some kind of sign.

The mornings of monitoring appointments, my alarm goes off at 4 sharp (this morning I did allow myself a no shower day and “slept in” until 5 since I would be working from home for the rest of the day). I rise, assure the dogs that it’s wayyy too early to go out (despite their apparent desperation) and prepare myself for the day. Typically I’m out the door by 5 and on the bus to Manhattan by 5:20. Even when I get to NHFC at 7:15, the waiting room always has at least 15 people ahead of me when I get there. I can’t figure out what time you’d need to arrive to be “first.”

I’ve said it before and I will say it again – I am beyond grateful to have found this place that, for some reason, is giving me practically free IVF. There was a painful and desperate time last year where I would have driven 8 hours daily or even attempted to charter my own private plane for that sort of opportunity. But I’m also human. I’m sick of commuting. The bus is $43.25 round trip and I’ve now made this trip more times than I wish to calculate. I spend two hours on a bus for a 30 minute appointment, rush back to Port Authority, spend two hours shuttling back and then go straight to work. It’s exhausting. I take my laptop on the bus and try to get some stuff done, but the WiFi is sketchy and typing is a real pain in the ass. Plus, you know what? I hate laptop touch pads. They freak me out. I definitely need a mouse at all times.

Today was fun because here we are on day 15 and I didn’t ovulate yet. I even had a real doctor (rather than my favorite no-nonsense tech) do the U/S and he said something about me coming back one more time before they would give me a date. I protested. He conceded and gave me some nasal spray to induce ovulation (wild, right?). Then they said based on the blood work, they would tell me whether I had to come back on Monday or whether my next visit would be the big day. The called me at around 1 and – surprise! – gave me a date, no return visit required. Small victories! We are on for February 28th.

My mother in law is coming with me to the transfer and we’re staying overnight in the city, just for fun and so I can pretend to be relaxing. I’m actually very excited about that part. For some reason I have 40 hours of unused vacation time that expires in March, so I’m planning on taking two days. Don’t think I’m some crazy workaholic; my company just gives a lot of PTO and I never take sick days. This mini vacay is going to be a nice way to take it easy, and yeah, not be rushing to catch the next bus out when I should be laying down flat with my legs up saying every prayer I know.

Eric is undecided if he’s coming, which my mother thinks is a hilarious concept. I pointed out that he was there for the conception, just not for the implantation, and theoretically he wouldn’t be around for that anyway. But yeah, it’s weird. He wants to come but he does not have 40 hours of unused vacation time and he’s not a fan of New York. That’s why I chose not to remind him that technically, his children are New Yorkers and have lived there for their entire lives so far. I find that pretty awesome. Maybe they’ll give me fashion tips.

I broke the zipper on my fat jeans (true story)

I laughed when it happened. It was yesterday at NHFC while dressing after my ultrasound. Then I went to work hoping that my long sweater did not ride up to expose my busted zipper. How did I become this person?

Let me tell you something and then back it up with photographic evidence: I used to be thin. Like, actually thin.

little brother Michael and me, '08. I still have the bikini...

little brother Michael and me, ’08.

seriously... LOOK AT THAT CLAVICLE

seriously… LOOK AT THAT CLAVICLE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I didn’t really diet per se, but I did take diet pills that made me never want to eat. They worked. I’m not even going to tell you exactly what they were because this is the internet and I’ll probably get arrested, but let’s just say I put together a concoction and used things in ways that they weren’t intended to be used. Don’t judge me. I was thin and pretty, remember?

It’d be so easy to blame this weight gain on infertility, so that’s what I’m going to do. As soon as we started TTC, I went off the diet pills. I was also newly married and enjoying the prospect of cooking well-rounded meals. Before I lived with Eric, I used to have a bowl of peas for dinner and call it a night. That’s still one of my favorite meals (but he is not too keen on it).

That’s the thing, guys – I’m largely in denial. I still pick up a pair of size 2 jeans and think, “Well that looks about right.” I still gravitate towards the extra smalls. I have an itty bitty coworker who laments her gain of microscopic pounds and cries that she went from a size 0 to a size 2. I used to be her! Seriously! I desperately want to join in, but when I pipe up with, “Oh my God, I gained, too,” there’s no chorus of “Shut up, you’re so thin!” No one says that to me anymore. It’s really sad.

Fat crept up on me. I never thought I would be one of those people (like, how can you not notice an extra 30 pounds? Are you blind?). I think it finally sunk in around my birthday last year. I remember my dad snapped a photo of the lovely moment at Texas Roadhouse where they make you sit on a saddle while everyone sings to you. I looked at the photo and thought, “How can that be my arm? Whose chubby arm is photo bombing me?” It made me realize that I hadn’t liked a photo in a while. Then I slowly pieced together that none of my clothes fit. And yeah, it really was my arm. I would show you the photo but I untagged myself and deleted it from Facebook. I wish I could delete it from memory.

Then I started the injectables and it was really over. I swear, I gained 10 lbs this January alone. After digging out my best flowing, oversized shirts and wraps and praising God that it was winter and I could at least cover up in sweaters, I braced for a potential pregnancy knowing that I already weighed what I wanted to weigh at 40 weeks. I keep reading all these articles about breastfeeding being such a great calorie burner (oh em gee, not like I’m overly hopeful or anything reading BREASTFEEDING articles! Let’s get pregnant first, how about that). Then I mention them to the moms I know and they roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, OKAY. Right.”

I get it. I do. This is all for a higher purpose. My mom swears she could never get pregnant weighing less than 120 or while taking the concoction of diet pills (which SHE actually introduced me to. Thanks, Mom). I don’t think bony/angular/gaunt is an inviting description for a growing child. So I obliged and became soft/cushion-y/warm. It just sucks right now.

You know what? It’s more than just vanity. I don’t feel like me in this body. I’m long past the days of dressing like a total hoochie, going to bars and acting all offended when the guys stare. But I have all these clothes, and I like my clothes. I don’t want to start over just because my self control has gone to shit. But then at the same time, I want my body to change in huge, life-altering ways. I’m ready for that kind of fat, I’m just not ok with this pointless fat.

I don’t even care when you start to show, my first stop after a BFP will be some store selling maternity clothing. I cannot wait to do it. My wardrobe is at this weird place right now and I don’t want to (and can’t afford to) buy anything new. Plus, I hope it would be a waste to do that anyway. I also have this weird obsession with maternity clothes and have wanted to be buying stuff all along, but have not pulled the trigger yet, because clearly that would be considered “jinxing it.” I keep thinking I’m not going to have anything to wear, even though plenty of people have promised bags of clothes. I just want to look cute.

I almost entitled this “my obligatory ‘I’m so fat’ post” because in my travels through IF blogs, I’ve seen so many. We’re all stressed out, freaking out, pumped full of hormones, bloated, depressed, and well acquainted with Ben and Jerry. So I know, I’m not alone. I’m just so ready for the next part where you don’t notice my other fat because you’re so focused on my huge round belly. Can I get there, please?

not quite obese... but on the road

not quite obese… but on the road

damn you, caffeine

I was an addict and I didn’t even know it. I really don’t understand how 2 cups of coffee every morning makes that much of a difference for the entire day, but according to my head it does.

Everything went fine at my Day 3 baseline test on Sunday except for one (minor according to them) problem. I have two colossal cysts on my ovaries. These buggers are effing huge. The tech assured me that it’s totally normal, caused by the drugs and that they should go away naturally when I ovulate this month. I did not ask the obvious, “But what if they don’t…” because I didn’t want the stress of knowing that could be an issue.

When texting my mom the results, she immediately sent an urgent “STOP DRINKING CAFFEINE RIGHT NOW” message. Apparently she’s had run-ins with caffeine induced cysts and since I share part of her genetic makeup, this could also be a problem for me. I assured her that the cysts are more likely caused by the shitload of drugs I’ve been injecting myself with, but I would give up the caffeine anyway as an added precaution.

photo credit: tumblr

photo credit: tumblr

Well. I never thought it would be such hell giving it up. As mentioned above, I’m a two coffee cup a day drinker, both in the morning. Sometimes I have a Diet Coke at lunch, but lately I’ve been cutting back and just sticking to water. I’ll usually indulge in a little bit of chocolate in the afternoon, but I’m talking one little wrapped square of Dove, not 5 Snickers bars. Caffeine did not seem to rule my life.

I started out yesterday with 2 cups of decaf, thinking that would at least satisfy my yen for the taste of it. By 11 a.m., a small but persistent ache started right behind my eyes and mushroomed out to the rest of my brain. At 1 p.m. I was so tired that I put my head down on my desk. I can’t say I’ve ever had to do that before.

Last night the headache continued. I drank some herbal tea and it helped a little, but I’m not ashamed to say I went to bed at 8:45. If we’re being honest, I wanted to go to bed at 7.

It’s a little scary how much I depend on caffeine and that it has that much of an effect on my body’s functioning capacity. Today the headache is still there, but less mind-numbing than yesterday. I could definitely close my eyes and be asleep in under 2 minutes.

So we’ll soldier on. This coincides with Lent starting, so I decided to give up coffee (decaf and regular). Fun times.

I post my blog on Facebook (and I don’t give a shit)

photo credit: the berry

photo credit: the berry

I recently rediscovered all the infertility blogs. I’m not really sure why I ever forgot they were there. Yesterday afternoon I was bored and had just done a little redesigning on this blog, so I decided to head over to Stirrup Queens and start searching around. One hour of reading turned into seven.

As much as I appreciate all the kind words and support of family and friends, there’s something about reading tales of other IF journies that gives me contentment. The world of IF blogs makes me feel… normal? Yeah, that’s it. Like I totally fit in.

I remember back when I had my old blog, I used to feel a little thrill of shock when I saw someone posting with their real name and picture on an IF blog. I thought to myself, “Wow. Ballsy.” But now I’m one of them and I take it one step further – I post that shit on Facebook. Yeah, that’s right, all 308 of my friends and frenemies and old high school classmates know my most intimate secrets. Why did I start doing this? Well, for one thing Burnt Toast started out as a blog about living with dogs and chickens, not about infertility. That one bomb-drop post was sort of unprecedented.

I’m starting to realize that I posted spoiler alert because I’ve been incredibly cocky since we got accepted into the clinical trial. I can tell you I’d never be writing about this and sharing it with everyone if we weren’t doing IVF. On my last blog there was a lot of complaining and not a lot of problem solving, whereas here I’m actually going down a road. It may not be a guarantee, but it’s a hell of a lot better than just sitting around whining.

That’s not a dis to anyone who remains anonymous by any means. Sometimes it feels a little weird knowing that anyone on my friend list may know when I’m ovulating. But I figure I give enough disclaimers and clicking on the links is a conscious choice, so if you know that about me, it’s your own fault for looking. It’s not like I’m putting “Ovulation day – YAY!” as my status. It’s basically a good way to keep everyone who cares up to date with what’s going on.

I also wasn’t prepared for any backlash. Again, I’m not sure why I think I’m immune to these simple things. And 99% of you have all been supportive, so thanks for that. I’m hesitant to say anything about that other 1%, so I’m just going to leave it at that for now.

I noticed that I’ve been making my posts like little stories with intros, middles, and hopeful little end phrases. I don’t know why I keep doing this. Blogging is kind of hard because nine times out of ten I hate what I write three days later. It sounds less cheesy when I’m writing it, and then I post it, and then I go back and it sounds all chipper and happy and fake. I think a part of me is trying to maintain this veneer of perfection for all those Facebook followers just so no one gets uncomfortable. And that’s why it’s really refreshing to go back to my anonymous IF sisters and see the nitty gritty, which makes me want to get back to speaking from the heart with the good, the bad and the very ugly. Going through IVF is harrowing. It’s messy, it’s weird, and I hate it while simultaneously being so grateful that I have the opportunity to do it. So there you have it. If you came here looking for sunshine and roses, I don’t have any. I’m terrified out of my friggen mind. And if I recently showed up on your blog with a random comment, I want to thank you for reminding me why we’re doing this.

A quiet house

I have always known that I wanted children, and here is one of the reasons why.

I grew up in a loud house. There was always someone yelling, lots of commotion, and lots of noise in general. I was one of three (for a long time, until I was one of five), but I would argue that my brother Eric counts for two or even three in terms of noise-making abilities.

Holidays were even crazier, typical Italian drama-fests with an entire extended family crammed into tight quarters. I loved it. That is what spoke to my heart. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it just felt like home.

One of the first things I loved about Eric was his big, loud family. I immediately felt like I belonged there, because it felt just like my family gatherings. One of my great joys in life is our weekly Sunday dinner at his parent’s house, a cacophony of kids and grandkids and spouses.

Naturally, I imagined a noisy house of my own, filled with the harmonious sounds of kids and dogs and happiness. Of course, I treasure silence at times, but I like it as an unexpected surprise, not a normal state of being. This morning is so quiet here that you can hear the fish tank filter humming. Sometimes we keep a TV on to drown out the silence, but sometimes we don’t. And in those moments of quiet it can be so lonely.

The silence felt oppressive when there was no solution in sight. Now that we hopefully have one, it feels like the quiet before the storm. It’s a quiet anticipation. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next moment, waiting for the noise to finally come into our house. I like when things are clean and orderly, but once the laundry is done and the dishes are done and the vacuuming is done it’s a little bit sad. I definitely feel a sense of “Now what?” I mean, it’s obvious that I’m lacking a purpose. But it’s not so much lacking as it is having a purpose that’s unfilled for right now.

I’m just really looking forward to the noise.

It’s February

I keep referencing February and psychics, so I figured I would give a little background on that for anyone who doesn’t know the whole story.

Back when we were diagnosed as infertile and when I was riding the emotional roller coaster of not getting pregnant every month, certain things were tough. Baby showers were tough. Kid’s birthday parties were tough. Any event that may or may not feature children was tough. That’s practically everything, by the way. Kids are everywhere and any little thing was likely to set off a sadness bomb inside of me.

As you may imagine, Mother’s Day was a particularly hard day. On that Sunday in 2011, I awoke in a foul mood. I distinctly remember lying in bed at my apartment, delaying the start of my day and wallowing in self pity. I checked my phone, as I always do first thing in the morning, and discovered the following message from my dear friend:

I would like to offer you this small piece of hope on this special day… I went back to the psychic yesterday. The one who did a group reading for me a couple of months ago and left me with goosebumps after reciting my entire life story. This time we were alone and I asked her about you and Eric. I told her I had friends who are having trouble conceiving. She asked me for your first name only and paused for a while. She said she definitely sees you getting pregnant and the pregnancy surrounds something with a 2. She thinks the 2 is for February. She said to give you 2 pieces of advice. One, be patient because IT WILL HAPPEN, and 2 continue using those fertility sticks. The second they show you’re ovulating you need to find Eric and go to town!
I know it doesn’t take a psychic to know fertility sticks help people conceive, but the specifics of info this women gives about everything else tells me she certainly knows her stuff.
Also, she said sees a beautiful baby girl. (I loved that part because she said it so full of emotion.)
I hope you have a Happy Mothers day, because you are a mommy, even if your baby hasn’t arrived yet.

Ok, let me premise with this: I didn’t know if I believed in psychics. It certainly never occured to me that I should go to one for this issue. And given the choice, I’m not sure I would want to know. What if the psychic said I would never have kids? How could I live with that every day, true or untrue? So this scenario was perfect. I had not asked my friend to ask for me, so I wasn’t worried about getting an answer. Plus, the answer was so full of hope on a day that I desperately needed it.

Remember, this was May. I manipulated that psychic prediction every way I possibly could all year long to fit my needs at the time and justify a pregnancy. In late May and June, I said the baby would be due in February. In the summer, I said the baby could be premature. In the winter, I said February would be the month we found out the gender. So no, I did not sit by patiently waiting for February to arrive.

February 2012 was a fantastically stressful month. It was, not coincidentally, the time of my first panic attack. I was driving home from work and had to pull over because I got myself so worked up that I could not breathe. To say that I had become obsessed with the prediction would be an understatement. I spoke to people about it as though it was a fact, not a prediction. The friend who sent the message was probably ready to disown me. I begged her for more details, nuances, anything she may have left out. She’s probably happy to live 300 miles away or I would have been at her house every night dissecting something that may have been literal, symbolic, or who knows, may have just been a big hoax.

February came and went. We did not get pregnant. It was almost a relief to have it over with, even if relief was quickly replaced with despair. I went through the rest of 2012 with a lack of enthusiasm compared to the year before. I don’t know if I believed it anymore.

As soon as we got our appointment with New Hope last year, I began thinking about February again. I started getting really excited. Without trying, all of the scheduling lined up for February of this year. Our first tentative embryo transfer (ET) was supposed to be Feb 1, but with my high estrogen was delayed to Feb 24-27. It’s still February. It’s still all about February.

I’m definitely less worked up and anxious than I was last year at this time. This is our first real, honest-to-goodness try, and that’s incredible. But tell someone you’re undergoing IVF and they’ll tell you about their friend’s neighbors cousin who tried 5 times or 6 times or 12 times and was unsuccessful. It rarely works on the first round; I know that. But I do have my determination, my hope, and a very promising psychic prediction on my side. Take THAT, universe!

eggs!

I feel like the theme of this journey has been “we just made it by the skin of our teeth.” I don’t know if it’s actually that way, or if it just feels that way because everything is so unpredictable and so important. We aren’t in the clear just yet, but after today it definitely feels like the scariest parts are over.

The egg retrieval was Sunday at 9:20 a.m., precisely 36 hours after my giant needle “trigger shot” to the ass on Friday night (administered by my mother-in-law, thank you very much, since Eric could not stomach it). Eric and I took the train into the city and thanks to my inability to comprehend very obvious schedule change signs on the subway, arrived 15 minutes late for the appointment. I was immediately whisked off to get blood drawn, where the tech had trouble finding a vein because I’m so black and blue and yellow. Great times were had by all. It was especially fun hearing that they accidentally took blood when they didn’t need to and had to just throw it away. Thanks for that!

I went in for an ultrasound, my very first interaction with the doctor whose name is on all my prescriptions. He reprimanded me for being late and quickly confirmed that I had not ovulated yet, saying “Good, good. Eggs still there. You go now.” Only after this all transpired did I realize how badly that could have gone if the eggs were NOT still there – that would basically mean this entire month of needles, stress, hormones and excessive drainage to my bank account would be worthless. Had I known it was that easy to fail, I would have been a lot more anxious going in for that part. I’m so glad that I didn’t know.

While still trying to process the gravity of what had happened, I was sent in to the on-site OR and instructed to put on my cap and gown. There was a small waiting area where 2 other women were already waiting. I sat there, mentally freaking out as usual, convinced that in the 30 minutes I had to wait I would somehow lose all the eggs and suffer the same tragedy that I had just narrowly avoided. Seriously, my capacity for worst case scenario planning knows no bounds. Of course, that did not happen. They called me in and the wonderfully over-the-top flamboyant anesthesiologist quickly got to work making me laugh and feel totally comfortable, saying things like “Ohh girrrrrl, we gonna get you a Dora band aid for that arm. You deserve it!” That’s probably the only reason I didn’t punch him in the face when he put the IV in the same freaking vein they had just drawn from accidently. Yeah, that kind of HURT LIKE HELL.

This was also the moment that the doctor chose to tell me that my estrogen levels were too high and I was at risk for Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (OHSS), a complication that can affect up to 33% of women undergoing IVF. For that reason the embryo transfer had to be delayed 1 month. I started panicking (what else is new?) and said, “No wait, it has to be this month!” She asked why and I stupidly stuttered, “Well… because..I’m impatient.” The doctor was not amused, reminding me that my health was the #1 concern and also saying that the transfer was more likely to work if my levels went down. She also acted like I was being a big baby, which was absolutely true. The anesthesiologist had found my vein by this point, and one second I was looking at blue stars projected on the ceiling, the next I was being helped into a wheelchair. Easy, peasy lemon squeezy.

The anesthesia, or as Eric would say, “Amanda’s $500 nap,” was optional. If you ever find yourself in this situation and have the option – DO IT. I was stressed enough, and the thought of being awake and “kind of” feeling this procedure still makes me want to cry. I know that I 100% made the right decision when I chose to be put under.

Recovery was fine, but took forever. On a scale of 1 – 10 my pain was a 2, just like mild cramps but higher up. Today it’s a little worse, but still just maybe a 4 on the pain scale. I would have expected much worse.

So that’s where we are. I’m pissed off that I have to wait, but then I remind myself I’m lucky to be doing this at all. Matt the study coordinator had tentatively proposed doing a pregnancy test by Valentine’s Day, so that date was stuck in my head and that would have been so cute. But no, that won’t be happening now.

It is nice to be giving my body a rest from all the shots, I think I obviously need that. Sorry folks, we have to just march on to March. Side note: I’m making an egg casserole for dinner tonight. Creepy, weird or funny? Maybe all of the above.
eggs